Where are the loves that we have loved beforeWhen once we are alone, and shut the door?

When kindness has left people, even for a few moments, we become afraid of them, as if their reason had left them

No one person knows much more about writing than another. I expect that when people think they know anything about it, then their case is hopeless.

I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.

Oh, this is the joy of the rose;That it blows,And goes.

Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange!.